A large part of that is that I've never been in this situation where I've fallen for a girl and she's been pretty aloof from me.
I mean, think about it, love. Ever since the first day when I fucking fell from the sky, she hasn't put up with any of my bullshit.
Remember the fucking tongue lashing she gave me at the United Nations?
Remember the honest assessment she gave of my public image?
Sure, she's loving and caring. But she's also smart as all fuck and she doesn't suffer fools.
For the first time in my life, someone expects more from me than just to show the fuck up and get my award.
In fact, you may not think it, but my swearing has come down a lot too, love.
I'm serious. I don't swear as much. Unless I'm with her and we're about to have sex that is.
Then, all bets are off.
Speaking of which, thinking about how I love her is fun and all, but the elevator doors are opening up to my floor and I'd much rather imagine what she's going to look like in this La Perla that I bought for her.
I think the best course of action is to go open some wine for her, pour some scotch for myself, call her, tell her to come over, give her this underwear, tell her to wear it, then rip it off of her, and proceed to fuck her brains out.
Maybe she won't be so smart after my cock is done with her, but her intelligence hasn't been affected so far, so I think I'm fucking good, love.
I'm actually quite pleased with my plan as I walk into my apartment.
But when I look around my apartment, I freeze.
That's odd, there's shit all over the place.
I mean, I know it's not like I've been ransacked. It's just I see a travel bag of Natalie's that's on the dining table.
I see her iHome that she brought over to charge her phone and play music unplugged.
What the fuck is going on?
"Hello?" I ask as I walk through the apartment.
Probably for the first time ever, I kick myself for having such a big place to live in New York City.
You're going to think I'm a fucking asshole for telling you I literally hate myself for having six bedrooms right about now.
I find her though in the Master Bedroom.
She's carrying a handful of her clothes from the walk-in closet that I cleared out for her and dumping them on my bed.
"What the fuck is going on?" I ask. She seems so intent on getting her clothes out that she gives a start when I speak.
"What are you doing, babe?" I ask her again.
She's silent. She's not even looking me in the eyes.
"Natalie?" I ask.
This shit is starting to seem kind of fucking mental. I take a couple tentative steps toward her and raise a hand to caress her cheek.
It's like I pushed a trigger or something.